The Hidden

He’d studied the information available on serial killers with the same concentrated attention he’d always given textbooks; what had to be done had to be done, and he had to do it the right way. He knew FBI men, behavioral scientists. He was careful never to talk too much, but he was an excellent listener. He never undertook any task lightly.

He’d invented an alter ego for himself, a man he called Slash McNeil. Slash McNeil was now fully part of his personality. Slash? Well, it made sense. McNeil? Why not? It seemed to go well with Slash. Not that he needed a name to sign to confessions or letters to the editors or police. He just liked it.

McNeil had been born off, as anyone who knew this manufactured alter ego would say. Even when he was a toddler, he’d enjoyed smashing bugs. As he’d aged, the bugs became small reptiles; McNeil liked to set snakes on fire. Once he grew older, the animals he tortured became kittens and puppies and then cats and dogs.

When he was sixteen, he committed his first murder. It hadn’t been particularly good, well planned or satisfying. He’d teased ugly Sarah Rockway, letting her think he wanted a make-out session with her, and lured her to a bridge. He’d kissed Sarah—and then tossed her over the bridge. In McNeil’s mind, at least, the girl had died happy.

But he hadn’t wanted Sarah Rockway—nor had he wanted the murder to be so swift. He’d wanted to slash her, cut her, as he had the kittens and puppies.

And he’d really wanted Celia Hampton. Celia, the cheerleader, the leggy beauty who would barely give him the time of day. He wanted her naked, doing anything he asked, begging him for her life.

But murder was an art to be properly learned, and practice improved any art.

It took him another two years to lure Celia Hampton away with him. He’d waited for a frat party. Waited until she was drunk and vomiting and offered her a wet towel—doused with a drug, of course. Then he’d slipped her into his old van and out to the woods in Virginia, far from the city. He hadn’t had to strip her; he’d shown her his knife and she’d done everything he wanted. After that, he’d cut her. First her throat. Slowly. He’d let her bleed out...while he sliced open her gut.

He’d thrown her in a river—weighing her down by stuffing her with stones. By the time she was found...the river had washed away all evidence.

In the beginning he’d been able to live on the memory for years. Then, more recently, he’d felt the need to kill again. But now things were different. The need came faster. He got work that allowed him to travel, and it had afforded him opportunities for murder. He was controlled, always controlled and always careful. He studied his victims. They were never ugly again. They were the pretty ones. But he made sure that when they were found, he couldn’t be. They might know about him—since communications among law enforcement officers were pretty good these days—but they didn’t know who he was.

He always took a souvenir.

The tongue.

Serial killers often took souvenirs. He’d determined that would be his souvenir of choice.

They would recognize his work.

Then again, maybe not; he left his victims in water, weighed down with whatever he could find. And the water concealed any evidence there might be.

Yes, he had an alter ego. And he’d paved the way. Two dead already, just in the past month. Now...this one. And there’d have to be more.

He’d watched the first girl, Sarah, not with malice, but with purpose. He hadn’t done anything out of hatred or viciousness. He’d been inexperienced then, still learning. With Celia, the second girl, it had been easy. It wasn’t that he liked what he’d done. He’d seen the need early on and he did his job as he understood it.

It was just necessary. Like dressing every morning, driving, breathing, eating—making a living.

He wished he could be sorry. He wasn’t.

He did what he needed to do, and that was all.

He’d become Slash McNeil.

For a moment, he paused. It was messing with him this time. He had it figured out—and damned well, too. The girls, the type, the psychology.

But this one...

This one was different. The way he handled her had to be different. And he sure as hell didn’t like it, not one bit.